Dear Hitler Take away the torches I'm not guilty I had to have this

I swear by this song and by all that I have done wrong, I will make it all up to thee.

Deprivation is the mother of poetry.

Garages, barns and attics are always older than the buildings to which they are attached.

If I knew where the good songs came from, I’d go there more often. It’s a mysterious condition. It’s much like the life of a Catholic nun. You’re married to a mystery.

..you wanted to be the Superman who was never Clark Kent

Fare thee well my nightingale, I lived but to be near you. Thow you are singing somewhere still I can no longer hear you.